The One Portrait

I peered slowly from the edge 

Of that golden ornate frame

The One Portrait which hung in his studio

Slightly inclined, slightly imperfect...

I'd been there for a decade now,

Past ten memorable years

Witnessed tumultuous events of Old

That swirled in and twirled out...

He had created my dusky hair

With a swish of coal-like darkness,

And I remember how his fingers

Caressed those soft curls that night...

He had whirled his paintbrush

To create a complexion of Gold,

So flawless, so pure, with crimson 

Blushing cheeks, like fresh apples...

His skilled hands had painted

Eyes the color of glassy grey,

And I remember how those dark orbs

Tried to dodge my gaze that night...

His careful fingers sorted the paints

As he chose the rosy scarlet hue,

To personify those fragrant lips

He had come to love with much care...

He swished his paintbrush a little

As the magical spray of soft crimson,

Created a glow on the neck and 

The hands he had once kissed so gently...

Colors blended in so beautifully

The portrait was finally complete,

And unlike his other helpless victims

I hung gracefully in his workplace.

A particular fancy he had for me,

Of all those women he brought back, 

He turned to my portrait for inspiration

And I'd play spectator to his evils.

They grew prettier as they came,

Fell in love with his wild attractive scent,

And eventually the luscious blood

Dripped down those linen sheets.

And one-by-one they settled down

Some in his parlor, some in the hall

Lovely women all snared in his net

Dead, gone, yet alive on canvas.

I still peered slowly from the edge 

Of that golden ornate frame

The One Portrait which hung in his studio

Slightly inclined, slightly imperfect...

...Glad that I had to no longer

Breathe the Agony.